


Kill Me Before Death

by King of Novices (mykonos)



Series: Kill Me Before Death [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cats, Communication Failure, Debt, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Fist Fights, Graphic Sex, M/M, Power Bottom, Threats, Unresolved Sexual Tension - UST, Violence, Weapons, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1606463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mykonos/pseuds/King%20of%20Novices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a predator learns that his heart can be threatened in the same manner he threatens his habitat. In which Malik learns that standing up for others is harder than standing up for yourself. In which worlds collide, re-assemble, and form a curious amalgam.</p><p>TL;DR Kadar borrows money from Altaïr and the mafioso wants Malik as payment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Time to pop my AC cherry. Beautiful b-day fanart by Allahdammit [here](http://mrasayf.tumblr.com/post/95666211053/happy-birthday-the-king-of-novices-its-already).
> 
> Inspired by [this](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11840878#cmt11840878) prompt.
> 
> This appetizer is to gauge interest and see if anyone's interested in the rest since it doesn’t seem a very popular theme/kink.
> 
> I'm rusty, but give the story a chance, it’s not your classical mafia rape thingy, I swear on the Styx.

While he follows Kadar’s lead on an unfamiliar path, Malik vaguely considers how life can swerve from a well-trodden track and come down to this. A failure of these proportions should, by all calculations, not have happened to someone like him. Malik is an honorable man. A man of vision. A man of reason.

Wherein did he make a misstep?

"It can’t be that bad, _akh_. He’s a reasonable man, he’ll concede."

And then there is his reckless brother. The most endearing and aggravating creature of all, clearly the crucial perpetrator of said misstep. As far as his sibling goes, Kadar’s failures are Malik’s failures as the older brother.

"I won’t repeat myself, so you better listen and take notes. We’re going in there to lick boots of a man I’ve never seen, a man I’ve sold my car for, and unless you spew gold from your mouth, you better keep it shut."

Kadar visibly balks at Malik’s words and recoils into his inner sanctuary with little mutiny. After their long journey on foot, they make halt at the front of a well-fortified villa on the outskirts of the city—close enough for keeping an eye on business, but well out of reach of the city’s inner turmoil. The entrance is surprisingly unattended, but the heavy steel of an ornately arcuated gate rises a good portion over their heads, barring access to the estate surrounded by heavy masonry. They turn their attentions to the intercom and Kadar softly clears his throat before pushing the talk button.

Malik let his curious gaze wander past the heavy gate and into the lavish garden prostrate before the rising villa. It looks like any other mafioso mansion Hollywood had handed out over the years.

Malik is here for a reason and having someone killed isn’t it.

" _The Auditore residence. How may I be of service?_ "

"I uh—I was supposed to meet with mister Ibn-La'Ahad at noon."

" _Name, please?_ "

"Kadar Al-Sayf. Acquaintance."

Silence greets them.

Kadar quavers a hello into the intercom.

" _There are two persons._ "

Caught unaware, Kadar glances back at his brother, then leans back into the microphone.

"Malik Al-Sayf, my brother."

The buzz of the unlocking system jars Kadar into action and he pushes at the smaller gate, one set snugly into the right wing of the whole. Down they went.

An uncompromising path leads them up a grandiose annular staircase, to the entrance where a person Malik assumes is the butler awaits. Kadar smiles awkwardly and tries to shake hands with the man who merely looks down at the outlandish offer and moves aside to let them pass. Malik _looks_ at the man as he enters, following Kadar’s lead again, but the stoic man makes no attempt to acknowledge his gaze, or presence, for that matter. The doors are closed in their wake and silence becomes their friend once again after they are left to fend for themselves. Kadar seems to be facing problems other than their sudden loneliness in a stranger’s lair.

Kadar is getting nervous.

Malik is mindful of both his brother’s antics—the ugly crease between his brows which appeared to be a recessive trait, the tight press of lips, the kneading of thumbs in fists—and the clearly luxurious surroundings of the atrium. Marble and lacquered wood and crystal.

Marble and human scum living among it.

Malik silently takes in the environment and thinks of all the pleasure this visit to a mafia-infested nest offers. His gaze finally settles on what seems like a family portrait of a rather colorful lot, men and women of all shapes and colors, people that only a common purpose could bind.

He watches and thinks of nothing; he tears his eyes from the photograph just in time to see the strut of their descending host.

He could pin a tag on this "friend" of Kadar's on the basis of his looks and bearing, but not his clothes. Malik may have arrived in a casual cardigan and jeans, but he doesn’t feel severely under-dressed next to their tormentor.

The man dons well-worn but polished shoes, a plain shirt neatly tucked into a pair of belted slacks that is buttoned only from third button down and rolled up to his elbows. Where his attire suggests a comfortable informality, though, his stance screams vigilance and acute alertness. This is accentuated by the gleaming steel handle peeking from the holster that rests across the man’s hip. Malik does his best to pay it no mind. The faster they are done with this, the faster they can wave a farewell to this absurd episode in their lives and go back to their uneventful but safe existence.

Altaïr nods at Kadar in a silent greeting and Malik blames the bleach-white of the shirt for drawing his attention to the curve of the man’s neck and the fabric pulled taut over his biceps. When Altaïr turns to look at him, Malik is struck by the unnatural amber of his eyes. Their rival for attention is a clean-cut scar across the right swell of Altaïr’s lips, a shade lighter than the warm bronze of his skin.

Something akin to interest flits across Altaïr’s features before he rectifies his slip-up and schools his features into a presentable plaster mask. He looks like a man who wouldn’t offer a smiling glance to a fucking neighbor.

Kadar beams an unsure smile at his debt collector before he decides to speak."I’ve brought the money, as agreed. Well, at least in part..." Kadar’s tone falters as he unzips his backpack and digs into it to gather up the cash, "although we sold the car, there’s still not enough to cover the interest rate, so…" he rambles on in hope the mafioso will catch a hint. Altaïr barely seems to pay Kadar attention. 

Malik knows better, but this does little to shake off the weight of the man’s gaze.

"The agreement was as clear as they get, Kadar. I lend you the cash and, according to the laws, you return it with additional costs today at noon, no excuses."

Malik expels a brief, humorless laugh. "According to _your_ laws."

The mafioso fixes him with a stare.

"Is there any other form of law under this roof?"

The ensuing staring contest between the two of them is brief and painful. And not to Malik’s advantage.

"There is no law here." He murmurs at last, a weak recompense for a lost battle and forfeited victory.

Were he any other man, less shaped by lashes of world’s cruelty and the way of men, he might have recoiled as Altaïr suddenly approached him. The man veers left and commences a slow circle around Malik, much like a feline with regard to its prey.

"Who’s this?" The question may or may not be directed at Kadar, now a mere spectator in the unfolding play.

"I can speak for myself.“ Though Malik’s eyes attentively follow Altaïr’s every step, he stills his body as not to aggravate the predator. An air of sandalwood washes over his senses and he swallows, for reasons not entirely unpleasant.

"Who are you then?"

Malik thinks he sees a look of wary inspection in amber eyes. The tip of a pink tongue subtly flicks up over the scar-tissue while the man awaits a response.

In some distant and remote dark corner of his mind, far-removed from sanity, Malik might have found the man attractive. No one could possibly claim that peculiar circumstances can't make assholes look like saints, and dolls like assholes. The subtle rise of lips made this Greek marble of Apollo look like a smirking douche. Admittedly, a douche who could crush both him and Kadar under his stony grip, if he so pleased.

"Malik Al-Sayf. The older brother of the innocent man you seek to tear apart with your talons."

Somewhere on the periphery of his vision where Kadar stands holding his old backpack firmly clenched against thighs, Malik notices a look in blue eyes questioning his sanity. It was amber that held most of his attention though.

"What makes that you then?"

"A silent observer?" Malik suggested. "A guidance through dark times. A luster of security hovering in the background." He removes his gaze and looks up at the elaborate crystal chandelier hanging above their heads. "Much like this in that regard." Amber eyes briefly follow his lead before re-settling on the Syrian.

"Admiring?"

The single thing more lavish than their surroundings was probably Altaïr’s attention on Malik.

"Hardly. The road of excess seldom leads to the palace of wisdom."

To Malik’s utter amazement, the man humors him and engages in the small talk.

"Where does it lead?" Altaïr has lowered his voice by now, turning this into an exchange of a pair.

"Straight down the abysmal fields."

Altaïr holds his gaze for a couple of moments. When he finally turns and departs from Malik’s personal space, the bubble of bravado bursts and Malik reflects back on their conversation, short as it was, with the deepest regret. He might well have slapped himself on the face with all this.

Malik watches Altaïr's back while the man retreats, stays with back turned to the brothers, pondering.

"Tell you what, Kadar…" He begins after he turns on his heel. "Consider your debt nullified if I get your brother here. A most generous offer."

And just like that, Malik might really have shot himself in the foot.

Altaïr’s words go through him like a dose of ice water. He isn’t aware of what his own expression looks like, but Kadar’s open gape reflects his inner bearings truthfully.

Since Kadar can only sputter in response, Malik finds his voice first.

"I’m not here to cater to your fucking whims." He hisses in a fit of rage.

Altaïr’s trained hand latches onto the gun and points it straight at Kadar with little qualm. With no scrutable expression and demand in his eyes, Altaïr regards Malik levelly.

"You prefer your brother with a bindi then?"

In any other situation, Malik might have told the man off or given him the full leash of his tongue. In in other circumstance, where Kadar wasn’t threatened before his very eyes, Malik would have played brave Calanus. Today is not that day. And he does not have a death wish in any case.

"What would you have of me?" He keeps his voice even, but no proffered suggestion can hurt worse than a gun’s muzzle pointed readily at his brother.

"Step closer." Altaïr commands.

Malik obeys.

Once with access to the faint whiff of sandalwood, at an arm’s length away from the man, he stops.

"On your knees."

"Malik—"

"Silence." Altaïr spares Kadar no glance, but lets the gun keep a watchful eye on the protesting Syrian. Meanwhile, Malik drops to his knees, thankful—for all his admiration of marble—that a carpet softens his landing. With no thoughts about his current position and what it entails and all thoughts on Kadar, Malik waits for further instruction.

Altaïr pulls the front of his shirt out, pops the first button of his trousers open and a sense of apprehension and panic starts a slow slither up Malik’s insides.

"You know what you have to do." The mafioso prompts, his fly open with a peek of gray briefs underneath.

"Altaïr, _please_ —" Kadar launches another useless protest.

Malik does not react.

With lost contact to amber eyes, Kadar, and the gun, Malik can only stare at that mocking peek of gray. Somewhere in the background of his whizzing thoughts are sounds of engines and voices, and distant laughter, but the gunshot that thunders above his head is more than enough to dispel the buzz in his ears.

Malik blanches in frozen terror. His heart slams against his ribs like it wants out while he swirls to see where the shot was fired. Kadar stands petrified, much like a deer caught in the headlights, but not worse for the wear otherwise. The gaping bullet hole on the wall little left to Kadar’s ear tells the tale of Altaïr’s already poor patience wearing thin and the extent of his demand.

"I won’t repeat myself again."

A reckless danger, that’s what he is. A threat with no remorse, a bastard with no relent, a fucking asshole with a fatigue for patience, and in that moment Malik hates him with a singular passion.

He turns his back to Kadar and sets mind to purpose, clenches his fingers into fists a couple of times to ease the tremble, and aims for the belt with forced determination. He swallows after the leather parts, licks his lips and finds purchase on the floor before a sudden patter of steps and chatter of men interrupts everything.

Altaïr doesn’t bat an eyelash at the intruders when the doors open to reveal two fellow residents of the villa and another butler, but Malik stills his actions entirely.

" _Dio_ — _Ezio_!" A blond Italian exclaims at his companion.

Having taken in the scene in the atrium and pushed into action by demand, the man referred to as Ezio reacts promptly. What looks like a dozen or so of shopping bags drops from his hands when he makes a beeline for Altaïr and pulls him to the side to chastise in Italian or Arabic or Urdu or English or _whatever_. Malik lost track of what’s been happening for the past couple of minutes anyway. The whirl of movements around the room gets lost on him, as does the sympathetic look of the unknown stranger who had interfered. Much to Malik’s and Kadar’s misfortune, Altaïr leaves the familial squabble triumphant.

"I’ll brook no further interference in this matter. Mind your own business, Ezio." Altaïr’s growl of displeasure draws Malik’s attention just in time to look up at the man while he is being pulled up by the biceps. Ezio walks out in a huff and leaves his cousin to his own devices. When he  disappears through a door to their right closely followed by the blond, the Al-Sayf brothers find themselves in the same trap as before, alone with the half-Syrian.

"The sum is not enough." He points at Kadar’s backpack for emphasis, "You’re both staying for the day. Until I call for you—" He looks at Malik, "—to repay your brother’s debt."

To their relief, he holsters his weapon, but the pointing hand directing them upstairs promises little comfort in near future.

They share a look and proceed to offered direction, side by side but preceding Altaïr while they climb yet another staircase. At the apex Altaïr leaves them in the hands of a butler with instructions and turns to his own business. While they are steered through the mansion Kadar addresses him in whispered apologies.

"Malik—"

"Hold tongue."

"I’m sorry, _akh_ … I’m so sorry."

Never before was Malik so torn between giving Kadar a decent, brain-rattling punch and pressing him close to chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay or Nay for more?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then there be porn. 
> 
> Graphic sex in this chapter because I somehow can’t seem to avoid it — my sincere apologies for what you're about to read.
> 
> One instance of this chapter was inspired by a lovely gorilla. Yes, that one.

Kadar is sitting on the smaller bed and wallowing in misery like he ought to when Malik leaves the bathroom.

Malik allows the steam to spill past the door and lingers there in the midst of the room. He wears nothing but a towel, a pair of slippers and a tranquil expression on his face. The realization that Altaïr’s mind is firmly set and unyielding gives him an odd sense of calm. There's no use in crying over what Altaïr will or will not do, so he opts for venturing into the slaughterhouse calm as a lamb ignorant of its fate.

Malik recuperates from his lengthy shower and lets his body adopt the lower temperature. He steels himself for the inevitable. Because if he is to debase himself for a stupid debt, at least he’s going to be classy and look his best. Because he’s proficient at looking his best when he’s at his worst.

"I’ve no clue how you keep your head." Kadar all but whispers from the bed. His head rests in his palms, but his voice is not muffled and Malik hears.

The sound he gives in response is devoid of any judgement.

He doesn’t want to admit that a tiny sadistic streak makes him enjoy seeing Kadar worry as much as he did, so he curls his toes against the comfortable roughness of cotton slippers and watches another one of those sophisticated chandeliers.

The mansion-cum-villa may be a triumph of architecture, but it feels no less like a cage to them. Odd noises they’ve grown accustomed to by now come from below at recurring intervals. Malik has no doubts that somewhere beneath there is an elaborate underground for purposes he doesn’t want to acknowledge just yet, or ever.

Kadar must have a sudden urge to change the subject because he looks up at Malik and switches tactics.

"How do you think they live? The real mafia, I mean."

Malik pretends to give it a thought because he already knows the answers he wants to give.

"Think about it. _Imagine_ the world from the perspective of a mafioso."

"Okay." Kadar says, fixes his gaze on a random point on the wall and ponders. A couple minutes later, while Malik is getting dressed, Kadar tells him he’s imagining the world of mafia.

"What's it like?" Malik makes sure his back is sufficiently toweled before he slips into his t-shirt first.

"Dunno. It's just the world. With lots of money."

"Where are you?"

Kadar’s concentration plummets and he scowls at Malik while they share the bed.

"Whatever you mean."

"Where from are you looking?"

"Oh.” Kadar picks up focus and thinks again. “From above. Bird perspective, I guess."

"What are you doing up there?" Malik watches his brother scrunch up his nose and resists a smile.

"Dunno."

"Why aren't you down among them?"

"No idea… In their midst, I’m just a visitor. An outsider."

"Well, go down there among them. Take everything you know and don’t know about mafia and merge it into one picture."

"Okay." Kadar obeys and does as he is told. A couple of minutes pass before he goes on. “That's interesting. I'd rather _not_ go down there."

Malik’s feet are planted on the ground and his back sprawled on the bed when he asks the question he’s waited to ask all along. "Why? What's down there?"

"The _jungle_ is down there."

 

* * *

 

The Al-Sayf brothers soon learn that the Auditore villa isn’t unalike a maze and that this architectural marvel hosts more than just those bearing the name of Auditore, Altaïr being one of such. Even so, they share a more bonding link—that of creed and blood.

They are invited for a meal.

Malik is less than pleased. No matter how much Kadar’s escapade cost him and _will_ cost him, he doesn’t want to expose his brother to this company longer than absolutely necessary.

They dine because they can’t stand to be in the bedroom anymore.

The brothers join _the famiglia_ rounded up around a massive dinner table. The entire affair is too noisy and chatty for Malik's tastes. He selectively follows the jejune chatter about concepts beyond their understanding and interest.

During the course of the meal, several things beg Malik’s notice and vie for his attention. All of them are bizarre in their own way, and in no particular order they are as follows:

\- cats

\- Leonardo

\- other people

\- Altaïr

\- other people with regard to Altaïr.

There are cats of all sorts, in a number Malik can’t settle for sure since they come and go unheeded by the majority of people present. The very prospect of this is too weird for Malik to confront and he leaves it at that.

The members don’t appear half as dangerous as he knows they are nor half as unpleasant as they ought to be. Malik doesn’t think of it because he doesn’t want to and because it upsets the ease of viewing in black and white.

The pack is every bit as colorful as the hanging portraits suggest—a courtesy of Leonardo, the fair Italian who had interfered (bless his soul), whose purpose and role in this eccentric band Malik is yet to unravel. The man is a curious blend of such meek nature and sharp eye that Malik wonders how he possibly came into contact with an order of killers. His wit may be the clue, but speculation helps little in this matter.

The little research he did before coming here Malik can't apply.

For all the sense of superiority that surrounds Altaïr, there is no evident boss. At least not at the table. Malik is aware their dinner company is but a small fraction of the whole. Still, all of them are high up the ladder, even the youngest going by the name of Desmond, and Malik doesn’t know if Kadar’s and his presence at the family table is common occurrence or a rarity. Nobody seems to question Altaïr’s choices.

Altaïr addresses no one and keeps talking to a ridiculous minimum. Those who are motivated enough to speak to him do so with wary hesitation and no small amount of reverence.

Malik holds Altaïr's undivided attention and the mafioso finds no shame in keeping an eye on what he thinks he’s claimed.

It’s Ezio and Desmond who break the ice most of the time.

"Aveline, mouseling, you've sold your pussy-magnet?"

"If you mean my bike, aye."

Across her Ezio is pulling his phone out and beckoning Desmond over.

"She made a hundred grand from this crap? Jesus, I'm in the wrong job." Desmond browses through Ezio's photos of mentioned bike and grumbles on.

Kadar seems to have little problems mingling with the murky lot. He shies away from Altaïr, but eases himself into the company of others.

Over ricotta rollatini, calamari, and a few glasses of red, his brother shoots the breeze with Aveline whose growing fondness for the younger Al-Sayf upsets Malik for reasons that concern mostly Kadar. His distress is shared by a silent man whose name Malik can’t even begin to pronounce—he is the dividing zone between the pair and is forced to endure their chitchat. Malik’s vision of Kadar’s innocence was long left on a dump, but his brother’s ease and trust in people clearly costs them both.

Malik doesn’t have to participate in prattle because Leonardo is a shielding presence at his right side and he is thankful for that small mercy. A protective vibe emanates from the man that makes him a beacon everyone seems drawn to.

Another curious member of the meal catches Malik’s eye and draws his attention (because anything's better than Altaïr's asinine scrutiny). Above the entrance and looking down upon their table is an immortalized beastly eagle with unfolded wings, feasting on what appears to be a stuffed mouse. At first look obscure to the inattentive eye, but domineering from the shadows. The eagle's amber eyes make him think of the man he wishes he could ignore at present. He’s both in awe of this staging and bereft of appetite, though he can’t put the entire blame on this macabre display regarding the latter.

"Lovely pet."

Leonardo thinks Malik speaks of cats and nods with a warm smile. His smile extends to Kadar who is busy examining the ornate cornice of the table.

"Enjoying your meal?"

"Ah, yes." Kadar trades smiles and clears his throat. "This table is beautiful."

Leonardo seems earnestly excited by the prospect of talking of woodwork. "Spalted maple is the most beautiful wood known to man."

" _Fratello_ , I'm pretty sure my _cazzo_ is the most beautiful wood known to man." Ezio quips in.

Malik isn’t known to give out laughs, but Kadar chuckles heartily behind his drink like the kid he is and Malik has no heart to object this crude language because seeing his foolish brother laugh is never bad.

Kadar inches closer to him and leans in to provide shelter for words.

"Last time I checked mafia didn’t play with cats while eating _gelato_."

Malik doesn’t know what to tell him this time and Kadar goes on.

"I think I falsely clung onto the general notion that mafia families are all either a bunch of uneducated thugs or stoic overly-sophisticated dudes who murder people at poker rounds."

The younger Al-Sayf rambles on while Malik’s attentions gradually shift over to the man whose alias appears to be Connor.

Connor’s presence behind Kadar seems like a congregation center for animals. Having finished the meal, he spends his time petting a couple of most persistent cats, but he is aloof in ways that have little to do with shyness and much more with the reserved way he regards people. Malik can tolerate his and Leonardo’s presence most. Interestingly enough, these two are the only ones around who don’t have the scar that seems the trademark of this house.

Malik isn't sure if Connor hears them, but Kadar is oblivious in any case.

"I don’t understand the hype surrounding the mob either." He answers and watches to see if he’ll entice a reaction. And he does.

"The media perpetuate the myth." Connor looks Malik in the eye and keeps their conversation private. "You know how the saying goes, the bigger the lie, the more people will believe it."

Malik nods but Connor continues to pet a tabby and doesn’t elaborate further. Kadar is humbled into silence after having been overheard.

"I should like to have Italian pizza at family dinners in the coming days. Altaïr, why aren’t we having pizza days?” Ezio whines about and dispels the dark brood that had settled over Malik. His attention re-settles on Altaïr after a fair amount of time that he has ignored him.

"I've seen Italian pizzas, it's like a forest on some dough."

Ezio purses his lips at the half-Syrian.

"You’ve become very bitter, _fratello mio_. Bitter and old."

When Altaïr speaks, the table falls mostly silent, but at last his attention isn’t focused solely on Malik.

"We live in a society where pizza gets faster to your house than the police. Being bitter takes precedence."

The air shifts into a somber state the two newcomers can’t comprehend. No one speaks until Leonardo rises to fall back into his studio and bids them all his customary farewells.

"Behave, children. Goodnight and joy be with you all."

The man has not yet departed and Malik already misses his presence. Perhaps it’s for the best. Because the sooner he is done, the sooner they can leave.

Because the sooner he satisfies Altaïr’s whim, the more probable he is to keep Kadar safe.

Because Altaïr needs zero reasons to have him assassinated.

 

* * *

 

Altaïr’s refuge is about as huge as Malik had assumed, but less ornate than he perhaps expected.

The sparseness of a couple of furniture pieces strewn about is upset only by an oak suite comprised of a bulky bed, a large table and a wooden panel hosting an array of automatic and semi-automatic weapons.

He finds Altaïr grooming a handgun on the table peppered with cleaning paraphernalia, weapon pieces and clips. Other than scanning him over to confirm his identity, Altaïr pays him no attention. For the time being. He is persistent in polishing his weapon spotless, and that is just fine by Malik.

The panel has captured his attention and now holds his keen interest. Figures only a mafioso could congregate a comprehensive arsenal of weapons.

"Nice armory. Quality stuff, if inelegant." This is sure to get Altaïr's attention as sun is sure to rise.

Altaïr parts gaze from the shining gleam of the muzzle.

"Army?" He inquires.

Malik can’t stop the hint of a smirk that bit by bit inches onto his face. When he speaks at last, his voice is every bit as confident as it ought to be.

"Best battery gun in the first artillery battalion. I can reassemble a Ruger 22 in a matter of moments."

Altaïr seems pleased at Malik’s familiarity with weapon engineering. A low hum of approbation precedes a nod before the half-Syrian turns to wind up his task.

"A sleek-looking thing. Hard to reassemble." The mafioso ultimately admits.

"I’ve learned to live with it while it lasted."

Their exchange is less of a hassle Malik imagined it would be.

His scrutiny meanders through the collection of carbines, down to rifles that frame a band of handguns. The gleam of a lovely USP beckons him closer and he shimmies in for a closer inspection. His valiant attempt is not chastised and Altaïr doesn’t seem to mind Malik’s proximity to a dozen weapons. Maybe they are sans ammunition. Maybe Altaïr is trying to prove something. Either way, Malik knows when to leap at an opportunity that falls into his lap. It’s easy to forget Altaïr’s presence while he traces engravings on polished wood and ogles the curves of a handsome rifle.

He reflects on the many times he had reassembled a weapon. On times he was compelled into working out its miniscule details until his fingers were sore and his mind numbed into nothing but bolt slides, trigger sears, pins and levers.

Malik admires wordlessly.

He pets over a steel slide and he wonders what it would be like to pull the trigger at the man, but he banishes the thought as soon as Altaïr’s voice dispels his petty fantasy.

"It took many lives, the one you watch. Handy for rooting out rats."

Malik’s expression sours, but it’s a pale version of his inner thoughts. He thinks of the eagle and the stuffed rodent downstairs.

"Must be fulfilling," He starts in a tone fully intended to bite, "to rob people of lives and dignity."

"It’s not pleasant business. But it’s work our creed decrees."

Malik contemplates laughing but settles for a gentle shake of head and a derisive huff of laugh.

"You wish to speak?" Altaïr prompts, perhaps because he feels he's robbed of a response.

"No."

"Then throw onomatopoeia out the window."

Malik bites the inside of his cheek to kill the urge to spit profanities. "There are no creeds in this world of yours. It’s just a lawless jungle. A pretty jungle, granted, but a jungle nonetheless."

There’s something about Altaïr that drives him up the wall and down, something that makes him whisper when he wants to shout and curse, and he walks the line, irresolute of what course to take.

"Record what our politicians are doing and tell me we’re worse."

"If you entertain some hopes of my sympathies, I’m afraid you’ll find yourself severely disappointed." The rising temptation to slip into simple obscenities is difficult to quench at this point. Against all Malik's hopes, the mafioso goes on with his garbled nonsense, but this time in a code much more suited to his current tastes.

"To all you butt-hurts it should be clear that we kill because we are stronger. You can't find _morals_ in nature." 

Malik gnashes his teeth but doesn’t relent.

"Fuck off back to your tree then."

"No, you go to your superior space alien planet. Let us humans be animals and kill those who deserve death." Altaïr, too, persists until they’re on par with the niceties.

The mafioso plays at being calm and it sets Malik on fire until he’s burning up and burning out with vexation. Something inside of him snaps then and it makes no sense to keep up any pretenses.

"Boo hoo fucking politicians. Boo hoo this fucking mafia. Boo hoo _that_ fucking mafia. All can be summed up in boo hoo cancer of humanity. How about everyone cleans their toilet instead of looking at how big of a dump everyone made and saying 'the whole toilet smells because of your shit'." Malik is this close to hitting something and the delight in seeing an ugly scowl on the pretty scarred face is all that keeps him at bay. "The toilet smells because of all you shits together. One shit doesn't make a shitstorm, nor one swallow a summer. Or _una hirundo non facit ver_ , if you want me to end on a more classy note."

"You speak of things you know nothing of." In that instance, Altaïr seems more upset than haughty and Malik latches onto the small victory and revels in it.

"I know enough to recognize pots and kettles."

Malik’s victory is short-lived.

Something in Altaïr's expression shifts and he looks the closest to smiling Malik’s seen him all day. He flicks his tongue over the scar on his lower lip before it forms the beginnings of a smirk.

"Take your clothes off."

Well, the respite was nice while it lasted. There's no ditching duty now.

A blink of a moment and Malik’s t-shirt is off. He hangs the piece of cloth on his forearm and takes to loosening the belt. Pants follow the example. He stands there, clothes in hand and boxer briefs on, feeling a bit lost, with some scraps of dignity preserved, perhaps.

"That too." Altaïr nicks at the lone piece of clothing.

Malik puts his baggage on the nearest flat surface and makes quick business of that bit of hindrance. His boxers join the pile.

If Altaïr appreciates the sight, he does so quietly. Malik certainly isn’t a bodybuilder, but far from a gangly lad. There is a handsome fullness to his form, from strong thighs up to the toned torso of a man who has a decent workout schedule. He knows he’s eye-candy for those who enjoy a darker shade of skin and thus endures the stare with confidence. When Altaïr finds he's raked his eyes over Malik long enough, he follows in his footsteps and deftly rids himself of his clothes, save for his briefs. Then he sprawls himself most generously over an armchair. His thighs are spread while he reclines and it's clear enough an order.

Malik takes his sweet time finding a comfortable place to nestle in between Altaïr’s thighs, or as comfortable as one could get in this absurd circumstance, and he firmly refuses to remove his eyes from the ominous bulge under the swell of gray briefs. Boldness, nerves, or silent defiance—let the bastard interpret it as he sees fit.

"Well? Do you require instruction?"

This prompts Malik into action. He rises higher on his knees and holds still for the briefest of moments before setting his hands firmly against the warmth of Altaïr’s hips. He seeks anchor in the bend where his abdomen meets thighs, fingers dig securely into skin where his thumbs begin to trace along the prominent muscles of his (admittedly) handsome v-cut. Below, he reaches the constraints of the elastic band and stalls.

A flutter of alarm enters his stomach. Altaïr might have noticed his sudden insecurity, too.

"I…" Malik begins devoid of plan—anything to beat Altaïr to it. "I actually… haven’t done this before."

"You can’t be that bad, I’m sure."

Disgusting. It's sickening that the man’s stupid words should offer even a sliver of encouragement. The sad truth is, they do.

Sooner or later Altaïr takes hold of his face to pull his gaze up and drag his thumb across the wetness of Malik’s bottom lip.

"Your pretty face will compensate for lost efforts."

Malik can't recall such a tremendous urge to bite a man’s finger off.

He waits for Altaïr to resume his position and keeps his mouth firmly shut, then focuses on task at hand.

He pulls at the stretchy fabric and eases it over Altaïr's cock, past his knees and down around his ankles, laying bare the equally bronze skin of his crotch. Altaïr is erect before Malik has to do anything. He eyes the man's fullness with a clinical and entirely rational (dis)interest and blames his surging testosterone levels for the twitch that somewhat hardens his own dick. He exhales and leans closer, and when he breathes in the heady aroma of Altaïr’s cologne and a man's musk of arousal, it comes down on Malik in ways he really doesn't need right now.

His fist closes around the base to straighten the shaft up. He tilts his head to flick his tongue over the dewy beads of pre-come and lap up the glans and doesn’t linger on the taste. Altaïr pants out when Malik's lips latch upon the crown of his cock.

He lets the mafioso card fingers through his hair and find anchor behind his ears as he eases him down his stiff length.

Malik takes as much as he feels comfortable with and covers the rest in his grip. He isn’t motivated or trained enough to go much past his palate, so his depth is shallow, but if he were to judge by Altaïr’s reactions, the man looks pleased enough having his dick in Malik’s mouth.

Malik is smart enough to use hands and unfettered enough to not worry about salivating over a dick, and Altaïr is far from protesting against it at any rate.

“No teeth.” He instructs with a strain in his voice, “Suck it out, not up and down.”

Malik knows constructive criticism when he hears some and does as he is asked. When he can’t go past his barriers anymore, he _swallows_ , because that’s what porn stars do, no? The unadulterated lust of Altaïr’s groan plummets on him like a thunderclap.

Malik should, by all reason, focus on sucking Altaïr off with efficiency and be done with it, but his hands seem to work sans his knowledge and just won’t settle. He thumbs through the dusting of hairs that form a path across the ridge of muscles up to Altaïr’s navel and spreads his palms to cover all he can reach.

Altaïr arches into the rough pull of Malik’s grip and fists the muslin arm-rests. The man is wrought with greed and his needy hums grate Malik’s nerves.

He doesn’t acknowledge these things and doesn’t want to, for they might change his perspective on the man and that’s the last thing on his list of necessities.

His lips wrap diligently around and work Altaïr's cock. In his endeavors he is far from lazy. He is rough, too, and speeds it up until his jaw grows stiff with effort. When it seems to him like Altaïr would like to come, Malik wonders if he wants to finish across his face or down his throat.

The dam that is his bottom lip breaks as he laps up the underside of engorged flesh and gathered saliva dribbles past his lips, down his chin, down Altaïr’s length. The mafioso grabs his hair anew, tightens the grip, and Malik is torn between pride and consternation that it takes him this little to reduce the man to clenching of teeth and labored breaths.

His throat does begin to burn unpleasantly and he comes up for proper air and respite. Altaïr is not desperate for release after all and allows the breather without protest. With the back of hand he brushes away the light sheen of perspiration on Malik’s forehead and Malik most definitely doesn’t think of what all this soppy gentleness makes him feel.

Altaïr’s fingers explore and he ventures lower, brushes against his Adam's apple while Malik breathes still and continues a slow path up and over his jaw and chin. A thumb grazes through his dark goatee until it settles against lower lip and delves into moist heat. Malik pushes at the offending digit rather than taking it and this tears a breathy chuckle from Altaïr. Not slighted by the gesture, Altaïr continues the wet drag across Malik’s left cheekbone and the scruff of stubble on his jaw.

"Broken?" The husky question dispels the veil of trance that has settled over Malik.

"No. Mother nature tinkered around."

Malik needs so little to hate him. He needs even less to not resist him. This man will be the death of him.

"I like it." Altaïr informs during his deliberate trail over the gentle crook of Malik's nose.

"I fucking detest you."

He is greeted by no response after Altaïr ceases exploration and for a split second of terror fears he might have gone too far.

Altaïr tilts up to rise, dragging the Syrian up along. Malik parts lips to proffer an apology but is not given a chance as Altaïr more or less backs him against the bed. Malik sits down to avoid being pushed and Altaïr follows.

With the impeding obligation and Altaïr hovering over him, he lays himself out, plain and simple, and waits for what is to come. The mafioso is less likely to lash out on a passive receiver and far likely to finish sooner with a pliant body.

Altaïr, of course, conceives of other plans.

"Don’t be what you aren’t." Altaïr's demand is nothing short of a growl when he holds Malik's jaw in a vice grip. "Don’t play coy."

Malik's brows narrow into a glare and Altaïr goes on to fortify his point.

"Don’t lie back like a sea star to let me do anything I want, I’d like some initiative from your side as well. If I'd wanted to fuck a sack of dirt, I'd get myself a sack of dirt."

Altaïr reaches between their bodies to take hold of Malik and is not displeased with the weight that settles into his palm— thick enough to entice and long enough to drive him into a frenzy. Amber eyes seize up its size and shape with a smoldering look. Malik closes his eyes and lets Altaïr fist his dick. A snap of the bottle cap perks up his senses, but he refuses to acknowledge what is to follow for at least one more blissful moment. The crinkle of a condom packet is a distant blur of noise. What does make him glance down is Altaïr’s slick hand rolling the condom down _his_ shaft with practiced ease while the man aligns himself.

Malik’s breath comes out in a rush when it dawns on him what is about to happen and he can only throw his head back and latch onto the first thing that stands in his path (which happens to be Altaïr’s forearm) when his cock breaches Altaïr and is slowly engulfed by slick tightness.

Altaïr sticks to a steady pattern of breath as he takes all of Malik in. For a minute he seems to lose himself while comfortably seated on Malik whose tight grip is either ignored or unnoticed.

Only after he makes acquaintance with the constricting warmth on his cock and gets used to the lazy grind of Altaïr’s hips does he release the anchor he's found on the man's arm. His hands fall to dig into the pliant flesh of Altaïr’s ass and alternate between tightening and release during the short recess.

"You require instruction here as well?" The mafioso mocks while shallow rocks of his hips send gentle waves of pleasure down Malik’s dick. Altaïr’s palms are spread flush across the dusting of Malik’s chest hair and the weight isn’t unpleasant. Each slow drag of Altaïr’s cock across the path towards Malik’s bellybutton smears more pre-come into coarse hairs and it takes Malik no longer than a few heartbeats to turn the tables, pin Altaïr, and start a thorough plunge into pleasure.

Altaïr accepts him quickly between his thighs and arches up into each roll of hips.

Every thrust comes down with a soft pant and Altaïr pushes back just as hard to the point where Malik isn’t fucking the man, but Altaïr fucks himself on Malik.

As he picks up tempo and pleasure starts to spread flush across his body, he fucks Altaïr as if there is no tomorrow, because there might not be one if he doesn’t satisfy.

It doesn’t come as a shock either that Altaïr refuses being bound to one place and one position and they are moving from the bed before Malik can get a grip on his own body.

The half-Syrian fits himself onto the clearest patch of table and doesn’t guide Malik as much as firmly plants him into a position to his liking. The light is better from this angle and Malik’s gaze is free to roam in moments he’s not preoccupied with giving Altaïr what he wants.

They fuck like lovers they are not and Malik lacks opportunity to feel regret. It doesn’t cross his mind to lament while he pulls and paws at Altaïr and drives himself into a body that accepts him with gusto.

Malik would best like to deny, but he’s taken by the form of this man’s body.

Under pretense of keeping Altaïr in place on the table, he maps out the planes of his torso, smooths up his sides, counting each ridge and rib. Altaïr pushes into his hands, off the table and shows off, and Malik can’t help but wonder whether the man truly enjoys the attention or if this is a show pitched at him for some inane reason. His right slithers up to Altaïr’s neck where his pressure against a hammering pulse hurls the mafioso into a moment of apprehension. He is lulled into a state of bliss once he sees the wanton look in dark coals instead of homicide intentions.

Malik removes the wandering touch because he is getting a tad bit too touchy-feely with someone he professes to despise. Though his touch grows reluctant, his eyes covertly pore over every dip and swell of Altaïr’s straining body.

He dips his head to look at where he fucks into Altaïr’s body and feels the heat of the other’s breath wash across his ear.

Ragged breaths blow hotly over Malik’s collarbone and up his chin and kissing the man crosses Malik’s mind.

The idea elbows its way up to the front of his mind that this might be completely off-mark, but it’s Altaïr who finishes what he doesn’t start.

A hand firm against his nape lowers him into a mess of a kiss, all tongue and debauched sloppiness. A gruff moan that rips through Altaïr prompts Malik to shove his tongue further down the man's throat and embed himself deeper into his ass, until Altaïr’s malleable body can’t hold the sheer weight of his body anymore and Malik loses purchase.

He finds himself all but glued torso-to-torso with Altaïr for a couple of confusing moments and retreats far enough to resume a steady tempo. The weapons behind remain intact but magazines, clips and a menagerie of bullets roll off and drop or are cleared off by Altaïr’s hand off table.

Malik feels the lip-lock has meddled into his sense of judgement and the blunder is enough to fish out admissions from depths of his mind.

He does find this asshole attractive.

The alluring burn of amber holds contest for Malik's notice with whitening knuckles, the _clench_ of Altaïr's hand and flexing of muscles while he gropes for purchase on the table.

Altaïr's breathing is notched, thighs tense, but his hips work persistently to the drum of Malik's thrusts. He doesn’t settle for receiving but rolls back to take and take and take and drive himself down a certain path he had set for himself.

For just a split second Malik wishes to teach him that certainty is a commodity he can’t afford in life, or at least not this time while Malik holds the proverbial reigns.

The mafioso submits to being handled roughly for the time being, yields into the grip and hard snap of Malik’s hips. Teeth rip at the scarred lip in hope of alleviating the mix of pain and pleasure that rough fucking brings.

When he's worked the man up into a visible frenzy, Malik reaches for his dick, but his hand is slapped and pushed to side as soon as it makes contact with the flushed crown of Altaïr’s shaft. If the man wants it so, then so be it.

Malik shifts to coax him onto his belly, but Altaïr seems to have a dislike for the position and rolls back onto his side while keeping the Syrian firmly pressed between his thighs. The unfortunate captive huffs out a sigh but obliges, grasps with both hands at the junction of his torso and hip, hammers in. The jump of Altaïr’s cock assures him he holds an intermittent pressure on something inside that gives the man pleasure. With no further twisting and turning, he commences a steady pace and drives himself into the welcoming pull of Altaïr’s body with a sadistic enjoyment and no meager amount of brutish force.

Altaïr is past salvation at this point.

Though his pleasure isn’t vocal this time, the sheer amount of trained discipline he utilizes to cover it up is enough to tell the man is at a breaking point. Malik’s hold is physically slipping, hands too slick with perspiration, and Altaïr is in a similar state with a fine sheen of sweat layering his body, gathering above the low droop of his brows.

Malik heaves the last gasps of a losing battle, lets go of Altaïr’s thigh to slither up his undulating abdominals. He sweeps one last time across the tightening muscles and retreats, knowing better than to shower attentions on the man’s cock this time.

Strangely, Altaïr removes himself from Malik's sight as best he can manage in this position; down there somewhere he is fisting through his own hair and panting into the crook of his bent arm, mouth gaping and saliva pooling beneath his tongue as he gasps wetly. The man is clearly lost to world at this point. Malik keeps pace with unchecked power and digs into the strength of Altaïr’s body with avarice until Altaïr is pushed over the precipice and into a shuddering climax.

Everything starts to tighten around Malik until breathing becomes a chore, then impossible. Through the throes of pleasure he wonders if it’s alright and _allowed_ to spill inside, even with given circumstances. His speed falters for a couple of heartbeats, but Altaïr wears a stern look of disapproval and keeps him embedded. The flash of something bestial in the ambers hiding behind a low scowl is what pushes him to his limit, but the burden of that gaze is too much for Malik to carry and he closes eyes, rides out his orgasm in shallow rocks and slowly brings his labored breathing back in line.

He feels boneless for the briefest moment before he picks himself up and untangles his body from Altaïr’s.

"Gods almighty." Altaïr's voice can't be louder than a whisper when he speaks up, "Color me impressed."

Malik offers no response.

Leaned against the flank of warm oak, he rolls the condom wrap off, basks in the stray jolts of pleasure and watches Altaïr wipe the mess off his front. Before he knows what’s happening, Altaïr seizes his supporting hand from the table and, pulling him along, makes a beeline for the exit.

"Consider your debt nonexistent, Al-Sayf."

He is thrust outside, the door closed behind him, and there he is.

His nudity in the midst of a hallway isn’t the sole purpose for the swell of abject rejection. Altaïr’s parting words still toll in his head when the door re-opens and clothes are flung in his general direction.

Malik looks from the bundle in his hands up to the shut doors and is momentarily disoriented.

 

* * *

 

He is a little surprised to find Ezio cross-legged and barefoot on a raft sofa, bundled up in a blanket with his fingers latticed together. The Italian is looking out to Altaïr’s departing guests across the balustrade and doesn’t turn to look at him.

"So, got yourself a boytoy?" He inquires and thinks nothing by it. Around him, the balcony is usurped by a litter of frolicking cats.

Altaïr seats himself across and lights up one of the cigarettes that lie around on the slab of glass before him.

Silence reigns for a while.

Having seen the last of the retreating brothers, Ezio finally deigns him a look and doesn’t like what he sees.

"I believe I'll keep the champagne in the freezer a bit longer then…"

The hint of a smirk on Ezio’s face isn’t that much of a smirk as a gesture of silent sympathy.

"Since your own sexual conquest failed, tell me what to text the girl I've been in passionate ambivalence with for the past couple years in order to persuade her to come over for coitus."

Ezio’s jests go over his head. Bleary-eyed, Altaïr looks at the receding lights on the horizon, but doesn’t really see them. In a sluggish move he removes the cigarette and lets the smoke slither up from his mouth without expelling it and contemplates crushing its slim shaft into a butt.

"You insult yourself."

"Har-fucking-har." Ezio almost rolls his eyes. Almost. Still, he persists.

"Christina isn’t just any girl. How do I approach her? What would you do in my place?"

"I wouldn’t spit in my own face."

Malik’s scent is still under his skin. On it is still Malik’s touch.

Ezio doesn't understand.

"Bitter and old, I say."

Altaïr appreciates a last slow drag of smoke and crushes the cigarette inside an ashtray.

"Spare yourself my poor company then. There's the door, don't let it hit you on the way out."

Yes, he is bitter and cold, unpleasant and harsh, but he is fed up with everything and hungry for something else. He listens to Ezio take up his advice, rolls the bitter taste of smoke around his mouth and thinks of rocks and embedded swords and hearts and of crossed rivers.

Below him, a cat is playing with a stuffed mouse. He watches mindlessly for a while, then bends to take the thread which pulls the mouse away and into his grasp. The toy’s eyes are nothing more than two smouldering coal beads, but the childish curve of its smile mocks him. The bait dangles ominously before the animal while Altaïr holds it.

He lets it slip from his grasp.

The toy raps across the feline’s muzzle and it recoils. It’s the cat that flees from the mouse now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.k.a. the story of how mighty Altaïr fell and felt the burn of love.
> 
> If you’re outraged at my choice of topping/bottoming, I feel bad for you.  
> >2014  
> >still arguing over top/bottom nonsense  
> >I seriously hope you guys don't do this. jpg


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You need to call the cops, because this chapter beat me up and wanted a life on its own.
> 
> I split this long-ass monster (30+ freaking pages!) in hope that someone might actually read the story until the end. 
> 
> I assure you, the struggle is real.

"Good morning, children." Ezio greets the awaiting pair with Altaïr trailing in his wake.

The fifth person in the dingy space is yet unaware of the newcomers, nestled between the duo that leer over the victim like two eagles. They are sans hoods and dressed in bike regalia. Desmond is still novel to the leather, but Aveline is on familiar grounds.

Desmond is quick and light on his feet as he slithers from the grimy table he used to occupy and approaches his elders.

"Aveline, mouseling, what makes you so morose?" Ezio asks when Aveline doesn’t move or acknowledge them.

"Lack of his brains on the floor?" She proffers a suggestion and pulls at the binding ropes pointedly. The movement shakes the restrained man into awareness.

"All in good time." Altaïr assures as he takes the reigns and closes in on their victim.

His grim expression is the first thing the man sees as he blinks himself into consciousness. The growth of his silvery beard is streaked with dotty ropes of crimson where Aveline’s bitterness left its marks. Altaïr has no pity to spare in the face of this brutal treatment. He doesn’t share her weakness for children but they are of like mind when justice asks for balanced scales.

" _You_ —"

"We know all that you are and we want the whereabouts of your boss." Altaïr cuts off. His voice is calm with knowledge of impeding success. His mere presence is often enough to make better men spill their guts. It’s a matter of seconds before their target fully recognizes there is no way past revelations.

"I know where he is." The man stammers out, bloodshot eyes frantic with hope of prolonging his state of safety. He isn’t young, but unused to the role of a hostage.

"Speak." Altaïr orders even as his blood curdles at the blatant cowardice, however advantageous to their cause.

Ezio isn’t within his range of sight, but Aveline and Desmond are a shifty presence at the man’s sides and eager to aid justice. Of the two of them, Aveline is older and more experienced, but her current impatience doesn’t irk Altaïr because her mind is in the right place.

Amber eyes shift across the cluttered abode they keep their captive in while he waits.

"I know you’re small fish, you’re not really worth much. But you’ve probably thought the same of the children you’ve shipped off for trafficking," says Altaïr.

Aveline's mouth is scrunched up into a sneer while she digs into the tendon of his throat and the man swallows against her blade.

"I’m not without mercy." Altaïr continues, "Give us whereabouts and you will bear witness to this."

"What do I get in exchange for cooperation?" There is more greed than hope in the lilt of his voice.

"Quick death."

The man wheezes and is quiet and lives on borrowed time.

"Or do you wish for a full night in the gentle hands of my cousin?" On Altaïr’s cue, Aveline cuts into the soft flesh of the victim’s jugular and nicks the vein. Fresh blood joins the crusted spray on the man’s tailored suit.

"The Carnevale!" The man is afraid of torture and quick to avoid it, "He’s aboard the Carnevale!"

The mobster is yet heave out his final breath when a splatter of blood lands across the white of Altaïr’s shirt.

Aveline shoots a rueful look at him. "Apologies."

She holsters her gun and readies herself for reprimand of any kind.

Altaïr’s gaze falls to the mess on his shirt before it flits over the guzzling hole on the slumping body on its way up to Aveline. They hold a deep reliance on blood relationships, loyalty, and honor, but he tolerates her sudden bout of disobedience because there are worse things he has endured in the past few days.

"There we have it." Ezio says in fake cheer as he guides Altaïr out by the shoulder, a smile much too large on his face considering what their week has been like so far.

"Clear the mess, mouselings." He instructs on their way out.

They are walking out of the shady apartments, quick in step on their way back to skid row—Altaïr to his car and Ezio to who knows where. Altaïr scans his wristwatch during the process of buttoning off. He divests himself of his ruined shirt before they reach outdoors, but by now he’s aware that Ezio is deliberately following him.

"Where are you headed?" The Italian inquires when it’s clear Altaïr won’t share his final destination.

"None of your business."

Altaïr thumbs the safety of his handgun before he unlocks the car and haphazardly folds his shirt into a plastic bag on the backseat. His spare shirt is somewhat wrinkled and he will need a new one for where he is going.

Ezio watches him dress in silence and speaks only after Altaïr heads for the driver’s seat.

"Altaïr." Ezio clasps his hand over Altaïr’s while it still rests atop the door, "If you’ve even a dram of consideration for that Syrian guy, you won’t drag him into this mess."

Altaïr's expression is cross when he sends him a look.

"When’s the right time to look to my own inclinations, Ezio? I fight for freedom but have none of my own. Danger and power I may look, but I’m no less human than the next man."

Ezio drops his gaze in consideration of the words.

He has no response to the impromptu outburst and it mellows Altaïr out. He brings his free hand up to where Ezio's and his are still joined to draw his attention.

"One crooked tooth won’t stop jaws from snapping. The order will survive even with me swerving from our course from time to time."

Ezio nods in understanding and his smile is soft.

After Altaïr is seated behind the wheel, Ezio knocks twice against the glass and the window rolls down.

"Be careful, cousin. He must know you've recognized his weaknesses, else he’ll see just a potential slave in you."

Altaïr halts before ignition and looks up in curiosity and mild wonder.

"It’s something Leonardo told me." Ezio grins, "He thinks of your case when he’s not cluttered in projects."

"Really?" Altaïr muses. It sounds like something Leonardo would tell. "At least it's one good we’ve done today he’ll be glad about."

"Which makes me wonder," Ezio ponders and lifts himself off when Altaïr starts the car, "Which would be worse: to live as a monster or to die as a good man?"

"You'll die either way." Altaïr says and the purr of the engine almost drowns his words.

 

* * *

 

 

When Malik leaves his office and starts an unhurried walk across the parking lot he no longer has use for, his heart stops right in his chest.

He sees his ex-parking place annexed by none other than the man he least expects and welcomes even less.

It’s a little over a month since his encounter with Altaïr.

A sliver of apprehension is snaking up his spine while he inspects Altaïr reclining on the side of what is presumably his car, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from the scarred side of his lips as he returns the gaze.

A few moments after Malik assures himself he’s safe (hopefully) and rummages through most recent memories to remember that Kadar is safe (he phoned him minutes ago), he ventures ahead a couple of steps.

"La."

"The one and only." Altaïr’s voice is oh-so-smooth and calm, his face remains frustratingly blank.

 Malik does the most reasonable thing he can cook up and just walks past.

As he expects, so it happens that the mafioso isn't pleased by the lack of acknowledgement and follows after Malik.

"Hold. I would speak with you."

Malik stops in his tracks and wonders how much time this will last because there's the last bus he needs to catch. "We have repaid the debt, what do you want now?" He immediately demands and doesn’t bother to mask his irritation.

"Did I stutter?"

Malik shrugs the jibe away with ease.

"No. But neither do you make sense. I wonder what you could possibly want from me."

"Nothing’s stopping you from turning away a request."  Altaïr says and Malik can’t trace an inflection in his voice.

Malik is certain there is an oblique intention in the way he speaks, one that he can't bother to think about.

He has a handful seconds of silent gaze to spare before he turns and hurries to catch his ride.

He marches on and doesn’t look back.

On the vacant parking lot of the translation company, Altaïr sighs and returns to his car.

The denial stings, but it's bearable.

Malik’s lashes hurt, but Altaïr rests assured with knowledge that it’s the same man he had met in the mansion.

 

* * *

 

 

The following evening, Altaïr is there again, leaning casually against his car when Malik spots him.

Malik's path leads him unerringly towards Altaïr’s general direction—

"A word, if I may?"

—and past him.

When he is on a fair distance he heaves a tired sigh and doesn’t turn to see Altaïr bringing his hands up to light another cigarette.

The mafioso didn’t have his hopes raised, but it stings nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

 

On the third day, Malik can’t stand his presence anymore.

His colleagues don’t weave plots yet and Malik can at least be relieved for Altaïr subtlety. He doesn’t wish to venture into the trap of pondering how Altaïr had acquired information about his late shifts, but at least he shows up when a swarming day has simmered down to the most diligent or those fallen behind schedules. He parks his expensive car when the parking lot is vacant, save for a few itinerant vehicles.

On the third day is when Altaïr grows more persistent. Malik has barely left the building when the mafioso accosts him. Perhaps he is even hoping for some wonder or miracle, or a stroke of luck.

"I won’t find rest until you speak to me." He firmly insists.

Malik is too tired for any kind of exchange and lifts a sluggish eyebrow at Altaïr’s stubbornness.

"This may come as a shock to you, but I don't care." 

Altaïr meets his disinterest without a flinch.

"I need to talk to you." Altaïr persists with a note of urgency creeping into his voice.

" _I_ need a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I get to have them."

Altaïr is silent for a split moment, and then:

"What would you like?"

Malik can’t brush off the silly image of a scarred tooth fairy out of his head.

He laughs in Altaïr’s face.

* * *

 

 

Malik is nursing a lemonade long turned into tepid slush when Kadar sets himself snugly into the couch beside him. His brother's side is warm against his flank and his presence lulls Malik into a state of somnolent reverie as he stares blankly at the TV.

"A few days have turned into two weeks... What does he _want_?" Malik wonders aloud because no matter how he turns it over, it's bothersome and it just _doesn't make any sense_.

"A word with you?" Kadar grins to spite him and it does little to assuage his burgeoning anxiety.

"Don’t be ridiculous. It suits your otherwise, but now's not the time."

"Think on it." Kadar shifts to face him, suddenly engrossed with the subject, "Altaïr is a reasonable man. When he's not miring people neck-deep in shit."

"Very persuasive, really."

"Spare me the sarcasm, _akhi_. Maybe the poor soul just wants a date or somethin'?" says Kadar, and the fact that it's _him_ suggesting this feels like a slap to the face. Not because the idea is comical, but because Malik's mind had already conjured up the same image during the course of the past week and recognizing his wild suspicions on Kadar's loose tongue means somewhat of a confirmation. 

"At least the hot gene seems to run in the family..." The younger of the two reassures, and in that mindless prospect, at least, Malik _can_ concur.

"You’re not even into men." Malik remembers when his mind drifts back to focus.

"Nah." Kadar's expression looks like a bastard babe of fluster and embarrassment, "I might be a teeny-weeny bit into Aveline though."

Malik deadpans.

"She could crush your balls with a look."

" _Ouch_."

 

* * *

 

 

Kadar’s words hit him with their full force when he encounters Altaïr at the set off of the third week.

He leaves earlier to visit the gym and artificial light is not yet a necessity. He can see Altaïr just nicely in the setting glow. And _see_ he does.

His eyes zero in on an expected sight which quickly turns unexpected.

Altaïr pushes easily off the car and unfurls himself like some lazy cat waking up from its nap in a move that Malik can only deem as a sensuous stretch. The mafioso is probably (definitely) aware of the way his shirt hugs _every_ muscle in ways which are entirely and altogether _illegal_ , but Malik's gaze roves over his form and he finds shame in the way his greedy eyes follow the stretch with rapt attention.

He does it discreetly, of course, with furtive glances at poor shirt's sorry attempts to cover up the lines of his torso and Malik curses his libido, his hormones, his eyes and ears, but most of all he curses that handsome motherfucker.

He quickens the step when his track nears the man and forcibly pulls his eyes away, but Altaïr stretches the last of his kinks out of his back with a moan and Malik just about _implodes_.

His stomach tightens with desire.

He figures Altaïr’s body will bear one last little reconnaissance, just a quick look, and ogles again until he is aware of Altaïr’s expression.

Altaïr positively _grins_.

To trounce the indignation at being discovered Malik seethes and puts his imagination to work— anything to keep him from running his fist straight into the idiot’s face. He pictures the scarred set of lips readily around his cock, his hands sunk in Altaïr’s short hair while he makes the bastard choke on his dick.

This does little to kill the growing problem in his pants. Malik slows into a saunter only because there is a subtle limp in his gait.

He averts his gaze until his attention is far removed from anything to do with Altaïr’s physique and walks past because it sets his blood to boil and he can’t stand to watch him anymore.

It’s no secret to him that Altaïr is nicely built, but the gym he frequents offers and array of body types to admire and none has sparked Malik’s nerves as much as the sight of this damned man.

 

* * *

 

 

Today, Malik is horny when he leaves the office.

More so than usually. Or ever.

A fitful dream he can’t begin to qualify leaves him in sweat and guilt that morning, and he’s not surprised but very much bitter about the fact that it mostly involves Altaïr.

Today, his body seems to thrill on the prospect of Altaïr’s proximity and Malik is livid with the idea. His mind and body shouldn’t be at such a gaping discrepancy.

His stomach knots up in ways he doesn’t appreciate, but, today, Malik walks past his nightmare without a flinch and with many a doubt.

 

* * *

 

 

Malik wishes there were a more unobtrusive route of escape, but there is none. All roads lead to the entrance-and-exit doors. Altaïr probably knows this and parks where he does.

He sees no other way out of this predicament than confrontation.

Half a month's time has passed since Altaïr begun assailing the car lot before his workplace in hope of striking up a conversation. Half a month is what it takes Malik to recognize that he has allowed Altaïr to creep under his skin deep enough to make it an itch. Half a month after Malik realizes that he is, in fact, an idiot.

"Is it sex you want?" He drops the bombshell once he stops before Altaïr that evening. He delights in Altaïr's astonishment at being approached, fleeting as it is.

Malik knows he is wanted for sex, among other things, but it's easier to pretend the bastard only wants sex.

Altaïr's eyes fall to the side and he mulls his answer over because he is caught unaware.

"I’d be lying if I said no, but that’s not what I want."

"Then what?"

Altaïr's eyes narrow into a matching scowl.

"Think, idiot, it’s not that hard to figure out."

"Who are you calling idiot, dumbass?"

Altaïr forfeits the argument that threatens to unfold and sighs in dismissal. "We can trade barbs or talk like two adults, it’s your choice." He finishes in a placating tone.

Malik sneers even when he finds himself agreeing with the man.

"Why would I talk to a killer?"

"Are we not conversing already?"

"No, because for a coherent conversation at least one has to know where it’s headed. And we’re both stumbling around like blind men." Malik poignantly lessons.

"It seems to me you do want a conversation or else you wouldn't let some unoriginal bait get to you." Malik opens his mouth to retort but Altaïr cuts him off, "And we don't harm innocents."

"Organized crime can be fought in peaceful ways, too." Malik argues.

"With controlled media and conditioned apathy? Sorry, but it's a shitty world we live in."

"It's a shitty world we've made for ourselves. Society is the product of the people in it and awareness can bring about change." Malik maintains only because he wants to break through Altaïr's thick skull.

"A man is not what he thinks, but what he does."

"And the evidence thus far suggests you’re the idiot."

Altaïr’s eyes harden at the insult.

He looks like he's holding back slurs of like nature. Unsaid words twist inside of him painfully and he sets his mouth into a grim line. He surrenders pride for conversation, but Malik knows only a fraction of his sacrifice.

"Contract killings or human trafficking—it’s all fucking same." Malik revisits his earlier point and Altaïr is sure somewhere in between there is an insult, too.

A faraway look dims amber eyes just slightly before Altaïr’s expressionless mask comes up. The swell of spleen inside Malik doesn’t dwindle only because a hollow shell of a man switches places with Altaïr for a few moments.

"Our cause is far nobler than that."

"It's only loan sharking and murder then. Well, that makes it better." Malik delivers the line absolutely deadpan.

"Yes. No drugs, human organs trafficking or prostitution."

"What you did to me seemed very much sex-related."

"Because—" _we don’t know how to approach those outside the boundaries of jungle. Because we only play by the rules of the jungle._

Altaïr abandons his initial intentions with a heavy heart and replaces his dubious expression with a cold, hard glare. He drops the glare quickly thereafter.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Not really." Malik frowns at the subject change.

"Yeah, me neither." Altaïr’s mouth quirks at the side, "Yet… I think that might have been the first time I got hard just by looking at a face."

Malik stares at the unabashed smirk on scarred lips.

His thoughts cannibalize each other until there's no survivor and he has none to offer in the face of Altaïr’s confession.

"Romantic..."

 

* * *

 

 

Lady Luck doesn’t favor Malik today either.

Rain is not falling as much as _pouring_ from the sky by the time he leaves his office next evening.

His face twists in annoyance when he stops to a halt beneath the portico and tries to pack away a medley of emotions. His eyes search out Altaïr and, sure enough, he finds the empty stretch of grounds blemished by one lone presence.

Altaïr waits outside the car with an umbrella dull as the color of the skies.

Malik is bereft of such luxury, but it does little to stop him from walking past Altaïr bareheaded. At least he left his laptop back at the office.

The company's flashy name shines down on the back of his head and Altaïr's tight face. The mafioso has shed his mask and looks more humane tonight.

Malik wrenches his look away as he walks on, with lowered eye, so he wouldn’t see Altaïr’s face. He concentrates on the grating sensation of the downpour soaking into his hair and clothes to avoid catching Altaïr’s hopeful look. He is brimming with compassion today, and seeing a reflection of personal wants on Altaïr’s face would crumble his determination.

His thoughts funnel away into a cluster of sympathy and he curses himself to damnation, and Kadar for polishing his empathetic skills into perfection.

Today it’s anything but easy to leave the man in the grasp of solitude, but he brushes the reasons aside for later consideration.

He swears he can feel Altaïr’s eyes on himself on his way to the nearest bus station, but when he turns to look over his shoulder, Altaïr’s car is gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Kadar is on his usual trail to feeding the waste-bin garbage when a sight meant for his eye catches his attention in front of their apartment complex. In a middle-class area of the city where they dwell, a car like this sticks out like a sore thumb.

Up on the last floor where Malik and he live, the flat is unattended and unlocked. The mist of rain that remained after the deluge gathers across his face and Kadar hopes this distraction won’t last for long.

Altaïr is a sorry sight to behold. At least for Kadar who has seen his visage on better days.

Even now, Altaïr’s mere presence implies danger, but his posture is tense, a sullen expression on his face, a dull look in duller ambers. He looks like a man who desperately needs sleep and Kadar can count the dark lines that cut deep under his eyes.

"Evening." He greets cooly and wonders what the mafioso wants.

For all his naivete, Kadar is not stupid; he assumes it’s him Altaïr wants to talk to since it will take a while yet for Malik’s bus to arrive.

He lets the heavy lid fall back onto the trash can and dusts his hands off on old jeans.

He waits for Altaïr to speak.

"I know you owe me nothing, but I’ve come for advice, if you find yourself willing enough to answer."

Kadar nods and silence stretches on for a while.

"I don’t find it easy to say this. And I wouldn’t tell it to just anyone." Altaïr stalls and fiddles with something in his pockets where his hands rest. Kadar is patient—something Altaïr is not but is set out to acquire. "It concerns your brother."

Kadar has expected as much and waits for Altaïr to enlighten him. When he speaks, his voice is low and avoiding attention.

"He is quick to set ablaze and slow to temper. While it’s something I admire, I fear I can’t use it to my advantage."

The qualities of his brother’s character are no mystery to the Syrian and he stubbornly waits in silence until there’s a question he can give answer to.

"I can’t seem to find a method that would draw his attention to me, the kind more favorable to my cause."

"What’s your question?"

Altaïr’s gaze falls to the pavement while he mulls his thoughts over.

"Can you speak to him? Can you make him speak to me?"

"He won’t listen." Kadar retorts right away, certain in his statement. It’s a small condolence to Altaïr, that much he knows. But his brother comes first and foremost and whatever he decides to choose, it must be a result of _his_ choice.

"With Malik you can’t use force. He likes to keep reigns close at hand and whatever you expect from him must come on his own free will."

"When will that be?"

"Whenever he decides it’s time." Kadar shrugs dismissively.

In the dim light he sees the bunching outline of muscle and tendon as Altaïr silently works his jaw. He’s either at a loss of words or biting back words he would later regret.

"So you won’t help me?"

"I can’t."

The younger of the two heaves a sigh and cards his hand through his hair now layered with a spray of light rain. He looks to the side towards the building entrance in tacit dismissal, thinking it’s the last of their conversation.

"Look at me." Altaïr’s icy voice calls for attention and Kadar spares him some, though his interest is quickly fading now that Altaïr’s presence isn’t imminent threat.

"I won’t forget a favor done." Altaïr pauses, "but I also won’t forget if you refuse to do a favor."

Kadar feels a bit bitter about the hint of intimidation, but he tries to talk from non-biased grounds (though he will always be biased, always favoring his brother).

"I owe you nothing, Altaïr. Whatever _you_ owe is Malik’s debt to collect."

But for small cosmetic changes, the mafioso is indeed same as Kadar last had seen him. For some inscrutable reason, the man is warmed to Malik’s attention, but he is as he always was: a cold, dead, glacial danger.

Kadar shifts on his feet and waits for his departure in renewed silence.

Altaïr reluctantly leaves and feels none the wiser.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fandom is alarmingly quiet, I'm really beginning to think people talk to themselves here... How do the rest of you handle the silence?

It’s two days after when Malik next sees Altaïr.

He is parked a short distance away from where he usually stops and leaning against a rage of a car. It’s a vehicle different from Altaïr’s, equally posh, and sleek with elegant curves.

Today, Altaïr is the embodiment of calm when Malik looks him over on his way to the station. When he is close enough that he can be reached within a few steps, Altaïr approaches him. Malik almost winces in alarm from the unexpected touch when Altaïr takes his hand to pull it up and twists below his wrist to turn it into a cup.

Next thing he knows, there is a jangle of keys as Altaïr puts the set into his open palm and finds no fault in it. In fact, he looks rather smug and pleased with himself.

"It’s yours." Altaïr gestures to the car behind him.

Malik’s gaze drops to the offending item in his hand, then flickers up to the mafioso. He has what is probably the worst case of are-you-fucking-kidding-me since he started working as a translator and editor-in-chief of his department and has a difficult time settling for an appropriate reaction from the array of responses that flit through his head.

"I don’t want it." He finally says. He tosses the keys onto the pavement with a snap of his wrist and the tinny clank against the concrete is satisfying to his ears. He imagines the mafioso gaping behind his back after he resumes walking.

A little recovered from the shock of Malik’s rejection, Altaïr scoops the keys from the ground and follows after him. Malik senses his presence and twists around to put a stop to the pursuit.

"I don’t fucking want it. Fall from sight."

"You don’t want a car?" Altaïr asks in bewilderment while he’s trying to wrap his brain around the notion.

"I want my old one!" Malik roars, feels a bitter wash of frustration seep through him.

"Impossible. I’ve looked into it, it’s already been sold in parts."

Acid is churning in Malik’s stomach at the thought.

"What else have you looked into, hm? My job? My life? My urinalysis?"

He is pissed and it’s ill-concealed. Altaïr refuses to answer and it makes him ill and furious. He attempts to kick the feeling aside because he is sure it hurts no one else but him.

"Do me a favor and go eat a bag of dicks, will you?" He concludes and turns to leave while there’s still time to catch up with his ride.

"It seems everything I do troubles you." Altaïr complains loud enough for him to get wind of it.

"Reflect on that." He grumbles to no one, "You’ve only yourself to blame."

 

* * *

 

 

Malik continues to seethe with dormant rage on the following day.

At this point, he is not sure if he needs sleep, sex or to punch someone in the face.

It feels to him like he is just waiting for a trigger that would set free all he yearns to unleash, and when he spots Altaïr in the same place, same time, he feels like an owl that has just spotted a napping rabbit. Altaïr is clearly in a bad mood, too. Malik can't blame him, but can't sympathize much either, since it was Altaïr who caused all this.

"I should long have charged you for harassment and stalking. I’m too lenient with you."

"Like you’re too lenient with your brother?"Altaïr counters without as much as a blink.

Malik feels fresh anger roil through his veins and has to clench his fists to keep from wrapping his hands around the fool’s neck.

"You can’t wrap siblings in cotton wool their entire life. He was allowed his own choices and a chance to welcome freedom and responsibility." Malik explains even when he can’t fathom why he needs to justify his motives to Altaïr.

"Yes and we see where it got him."

" _What_?"

"I said—"

"I heard what you said," Malik interrupts harshly and anger comes back tenfold, "Explain yourself."

Altaïr’s eyes trail off to the side before re-settling on him.

"No, forget it. I yield. It's something I just randomly uttered."

" _Altaïr_ —"

"Stop there. You're seeking conflict where none exist, I'm really not entertained by our discussion."

Malik's thoughts immediately latch onto his last words.

"You're projecting. I'm not here to _entertain_ you, so I couldn't give a shit." He invests a world of scorn into the word.

"You're splitting hairs."

"And you’re picking endless minor loopholes because you're a shit-stirring idiot."

"I can twist words all day too, asshole. I grew out of it when I realized it's more rewarding to have a relevant, intelligent conversation." Altaïr snaps once he can speak without anger clogging his throat.

"If you don't want to keep talking then just fuck off and never return. It's obvious you've no idea what you're talking about, otherwise you would have at least tried to explain yourself."

The mafioso straightens himself and puts on a steady scowl.

"You just assumed you're perfect and everyone else is a dickhead so there's no point in trying to explain." Altaïr pulls his hands out of his pockets and looks like he's over and done with, "I give up. Fucking _hell_ , Malik, the density of you is incredible it surpasses black holes, I'm surprised light can survive around you."

Malik curls his lip slightly, wants to give a scathing retort, and growls before he can stop himself.

Altaïr drives him _mad_.

The move that Altaïr fails to anticipate is the summation of all Malik’s pent up anger from the past few weeks. A rush of adrenaline shoots through him as he draws back his right hand and moves forward with a swinging fist. He isn’t at a striking distance, his angle is poor, and the punch is not the best he can do, but it’s a forewarning of what’s to come and he wants to keep it fair.

The blow he strikes crushes across Altaïr’s jaw because it’s not that vulnerable and it leaves a pretty mark.

Altaïr’s body sways sideways but he doesn’t lose balance. He is quick to recover, braces himself and pushes off with a growl that chills Malik’s blood in ways he doesn’t have time to ponder. Of the two of them, Malik is more rusty at combat, but he grins at the challenge and it’s an exhilarating feeling that surges deep from his gut when Altaïr launches the attack.

He bolts forward and his power is vicious, but Malik is braced when the impact comes. He solidifies his core so his shoulder doesn’t absorb all the impact and the punch doesn’t send him reeling backwards when his forearms take up the shock of the strike.

The skies are heavy and people dread another onslaught of torrential rain, so no one is there to see the commotion, and both are equally satisfied with the lack of witnesses.

Altaïr’s first attacks are experimental, meant to set grounds and gauge Malik’s ability and strength. Malik dodges easily enough, mindful of the car’s proximity and the advantages and disadvantages it might present. Altaïr has no appetite to turn this into a long circle and his second lunge is a flurry of attacks. Malik immediately knows his sort. He is agile and fast, and, coupled with strength, it’s a most deadly combination. And Altaïr is exactly it.         

There’s no flailing, kicking or pulling around, just two skilled fighters bent on hurting each other, and it’s now evident that the match will be a long one.

Malik’s hands are fisted and ready in front of him, he is brimming with pent up energy from skipped gym sessions. He knows he can cut off a blow’s power by proximity, but he backs a distance away as quick decisions dawn on him. It would be most advantageous to tackle the mafioso against the car, but his position is off. For this feat he must have Altaïr’s back to the vehicle again.

He monitors his moves closely and blocks when Altaïr stabs forward in another sudden attack, but this move alone has put the man off balance and vulnerable to a counter-blow.

Malik spins clockwise and aims an elbow jab at the height of his head or throat, whichever crosses his path first, but Altaïr parries and attacks right back in a fraction of a second. Malik barely manages to dodge his sweeping fist and the power of its kick rushes past his ear in a swoosh. The thrum of Altaïr’s power makes his skin tingle.

Malik hurls a tight fist at Altaïr’s stomach, aims above the belt-line and lands two consecutive hits at the bottom of his ribcage before his knee follows.

Altaïr doubles over with a grunt.

His head low and in perfect height to ram a knee up, but Malik doesn’t want Altaïr’s nose pushed up into his brain and it’s a stupid way to die anyway. He opts for a rabbit punch that makes the man stagger a handful of steps. Malik knows at least half the amount of Altaïr’s ways to kill a man with bare hands and he uses none of them.

When Altaïr rises to assume a fighting stance he seems to be picking up on patience and waits for engagement in hope of a counterattack. Burning ambers seize him up with a strange predatory anticipation and this is getting Malik nowhere. Attacking now is like raising a sword behind your head to try a wide blow—it will end with a sword in your gut. But he never won a fight by defensive action and moving forward deliberately is his defense now. He attacks hoping Altaïr will make a mishap.

Altaïr parries and doesn’t attack until there is some vulnerable point on Malik’s body. When Malik opens his flank Altaïr rams shoulder-first into him with nothing short of a roar.

Chances are nine to one that Altaïr will get him, and he does.

Malik balances on the balls of his feet and doesn’t fall, but the stumble is all Altaïr needs.

What’s meant as a swift, hard hook-punch to the side of Malik’s jaw misses its target deliberately. Malik’s eyes dart to Altaïr’s other fist too late and it catches him by surprise although it shouldn’t have. His natural reflexes are susceptible enough to fall for the trick and he collects a punch to the face.

Altaïr’s blow is solid and the sensation is as jarring and bewildering as he remembers from the military days. Were he a lesser man, he might have ended up with a concussion. Malik’s week is shitty, but today he's lucky enough to have his tongue where it ought to be when the the heel of Altaïr’s hand gets him off-guard with an upward strike to the bottom of his jaw, and at least there is no blood. When he stretches the muscles of his jaw he doesn’t need to touch to know it’ll bruise enough to match Altaïr’s.

There's other pressing concerns because the vivid whiteness that has assailed his retinas simmers into black and his vision is veiled long enough for Altaïr to take advantage and torque him into a choke hold.

He tries to wrench himself from the grasp but Altaïr pulls back with convincing force. His right goes over Malik’s shoulder and grips the back of his skull, his left slips over Malik’s left shoulder, reaches across his neck, and grabs his own forearm. He is swift in what he does and the pressure is enough to prolong Malik’s visionless state longer than it’s comfortable.

Altaïr’s breathing is harsh and Malik’s is cut off by the pressure on his trachea.

Malik plays dirty because he doesn’t want to lose consciousness. His hands don’t grasp at Altaïr’s in a futile attempt to loosen the hold, but drop behind his back. A startled moan in his ear tells him he got his hand on Altaïr’s family jewels but the man relents before Malik’s grip can squash the sensitive tissue.

Malik was never aiming for a cold-cock or rupture of vital organs because he wants Altaïr conscious and in pain and he values his life enough to leave Altaïr’s balls intact.

He twists in Altaïr's loosening lock and releases the grip on his balls short before head-butting him across face.

Altaïr’s hands don’t fall to trick in the aftermath and he doesn’t leave his stomach exposed this time.

Malik is livid when he gets back into a proper stance, throws his fist forward, puts weight into it, uses the momentum of his shoulder, feigning left then right to draw Altaïr’s defense elsewhere, and strikes with vicious determination until the shield of Altaïr’s braced forearms is vain against his assault. He favors his right, but it must keep Altaïr in place while his left non-dominant hand targets the summit of his nose. The blow he delivers is not enough to break bone, but a spurt of blood that trickles down his scar and snarling mouth is a sight for sore eyes.

Altaïr’s skin is lighter and flushed red with exertion, but he isn’t fatigued yet and neither is Malik. Sweat is rising on his skin and a new rush of adrenaline that makes him giddy.

He has only a second to gloat.

Altaïr sprints away towards his own car, launches himself against the door in a kick and twists off and back at him in a move that just has to be the craziest shit Malik has ever seen. Ever.

The man, the _beast_ , is diving at him from above, having used a side surface as a fucking springboard, and Malik considers himself lucky indeed for acting quick enough to let himself fall backwards and out of range. Altaïr is growling at squandered chance even before his feet absorb the shock of the fall and Malik almost misses his first real chance to tackle him because his brain is still nonplussed at the image of _Altaïr fucking leaping at him_.

His body is quicker than his mind when he kicks off ground, hands braced for impact and weight, because the timing is _perfect_ , and Altaïr is still rising to full height when Malik lunges forward. He bends at the waist before he crashes into Altaïr, hands wrapping around his middle in a vice grip. The impact carries their combined weight against the side Altaïr had leapt from and there is a dull thud as they slam into the car.

The collision is enough to leave them both winded and bereft of breath; Malik is first to recover.

They grapple before Malik locates Altaïr’s hands, however clumsy, and pins them to the car roof easily enough only because Altaïr allows it. The mafioso pants into his face and his torso heaves with labored breath under Malik’s. The sight of him—sweaty, his chest rising and falling with breaths of exertion, fists pinned above his head—is attractive to behold.

Altaïr smells of sandalwood and trouble, a mix that goes well together. It’s the scent that cajoles Malik into having a taste of the spark that flares so easily between them.

This time when Malik gives Altaïr what he wants, it’s entirely voluntary.

Altaïr opens his mouth to relieve the pressure against his lips, but welcomes the rough sting of Malik’s kiss with a low moan. The reaction is every bit as fierce as Malik expects from Altaïr and not nearly enough of what he needs from the man.

He unpins Altaïr and drags hands down his forearms, past his elbows and settles on his waist and Altaïr’s eager fingers dig into Malik’s sides and pull him against his crotch. His hands are greedy, his kiss demanding, and the scorching heat of blind fury dissipates into warm arousal.

Malik wedges a knee between Altaïr’s legs and shoves him more firmly against the car, allows himself to slide into the cradle of the man’s hips when Altaïr opens his thighs astride to provide a fit for him. Altaïr’s lips yield but remain eager under his own. He digs into the muscle cord of his back and Malik growls lowly in response to Altaïr’s rough touch.

He fucking hates him for getting so easily under his skin.

It’s insane.

Whatever toys with him makes him want to beat Altaïr into a bloody pulp one minute and rip his clothes off in the next.

Another groan rumbles from the depths of his throat and he dives in for a harsh kiss, bites at Altaïr’s lips as if to punish him for making him want it. Altaïr’s nose doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore but the scent of blood lingers heavy in the air between them. Malik tilts to gain deeper access, bucks into him, eats the moan off Altaïr’s lips.

The responsive sound makes Malik think of Altaïr spread beneath him and the flashback is enough to get his cock hard. Arousal settles deep in his gut and branches out to the rest of his body and his hunger for sex is excruciating.

Malik’s insistent thrusts are met halfway until their bodies have more or less settled into an artless agreement of rough rutting. His voice of reason is drowned out by a scream of his libido and he bites into the scar, presses his entire front into Altaïr until they are one body.

His mind is a mesh of giddy excitement and consternation in the short intervals he’s aware that he is _rutting_ with Altaïr on a _parking lot_ , but his brain is too convulsed with lust to stop himself from a steady grind against Altaïr’s thickening erection.

He delves into the velvety heat of Altaïr’s mouth and feels the warmth of Altaïr’s body through the cotton of his shirt. It seeps into his cold hands and under his skin. The man is ice, but his body is ever so warm. He feels the prickle of Altaïr’s five o’clock shadow when he nips against the side of jaw he had bruised earlier.

"You want me, you fucking bastard." Altaïr whispers darkly and Malik feels his sultry breath across his own sore jaw.

Malik’s lust is thick as honey and heat churns in his gut, but even when his body reacts positively to Altaïr’s proximity, he pushes away.

When he begins to distance himself Altaïr’s hands are a steady pressure against his back and draw him back in.

Altaïr is wrapped around him, inside him, and it’s far from the most painful thing he’s received today, but the hold _hurts_ in ways that rip and shred at Malik’s insides. His head is in absolute disarray and he breathes himself slowly into a farce of semblance.

He retreats when he can’t stand the stifling heat between them any longer.

Altaïr’s mouth unhinges slowly, but by the time he finds words, Malik is already halfway across the parking lot.

 

* * *

 

 

"You fight well." Altaïr admits the next time they face each other. The blast of yesterday’s anger has boiled down to vivid clarity of the event.

Malik stands before him and looks down at the offered cigarette before he shares a drag with the mafioso. The last time he indulged he doesn’t care to remember and the smoke is an unwelcome evocation of memories and a welcome bitterness in his mouth.

"It shouldn’t surprise you. I did say I was in the army," says Malik as he hands back the cigarette and blows off residual smoke.

There’s an unsightly discoloration on the side of Altaïr’s jaw that matches the mottle on Malik’s own face. The questions have been plentiful today, but he had managed to evade.

"You’ve nerves coming here."

"Why are you so bent on turning your head from me?"

"I’ve nothing to discuss with you."

"I’m not here to discuss." Altaïr crushes what's left of the cigarette beneath his shoe before his eyes flicker up to study the Syrian for a handful of moments, "Malik... What happened back then, was it so bad? Did I treat you too unkind?" he asks and Malik needs a second to realize that he is referring to the events at the villa, "Kadar is lucky he stumbled upon me—had it been any other mafia, he would be past. The both of you."

Malik begrudgingly admits to himself there is some sense to Altaïr's jabber.

"What had happened had been forgiven, but it surely has not been forgotten." Malik says and swallows around the large lump in his throat before he continues, "I want nothing to do with you." He reiterates before his eyes rivet on the heated gaze across him.

"If you're making money peddling nonsense, well done, you're parting fools from their money. But don’t assume you can sell me the same bullshit. I know what I’ve seen."

"And what is it exactly that you’ve seen which eludes my scrutiny, hm?" Malik drawls.

"Lust in you. Lust for me. Yesterday, and back at the villa while we fucked—"

"—I was doing what was _demanded_ of me." Malik manages to dodge the hot surge to his cheeks and he is most proud of that. He represses the urge to lean over and throttle the man.

"I’ve had the misfortune to lay with sluts, I know the difference between sham and lust for _me_. Once you drop your clothes and pretense with it, it's too late to wonder why you've shed it." Altaïr clarifies, calling Malik's sincerity into question.

There is a pause as Malik flounders for words to express his astonishment.

"You think too highly of yourself. And you’re clearly mistaken." He listens to himself say.

"You think I’m projecting? What about the way you pulled and pawed at me—"

"You’ve _told_ me not to lie like a ‘sack of dirt’!"

"—which does nothing to explain why you kissed me or the reverence in your eyes when you fucked m—"

Malik shoots out to grab the man by his stupid white shirt and shove him against the car in an echo of yesterday.

Altaïr staggers back against the driver's door, but the vicious press of Malik's lips stings more than his aching ribs. His nostrils flare as he takes a breath and launches an attempt to shove Malik off, but the Syrian isn’t easy to subdue and wrestles Altaïr against the machine with a snarl. Malik hears an answering growl, but the struggle is short-lived because Altaïr seems to subdue to his own demons instead as he parts his mouth and welcomes Malik's tongue against his own.

Their hands start to move, harshly, roughly against each other in urgency before one of them is in need of proper air.

"Mistaken, am I?" Altaïr’s words are heavy with humid breath and thick with growing lust, "No man can behold me with such a wanton look and live to say he’s not interested."

Malik swallows and holds still. He lets the words pass, and the thrill they send up his spine.

He craves nothing more than to pound Altaïr senseless on this very car, but the better man in him wins and waits until he’s sure he can speak in a voice that has some semblance of resolution.

"You have stepped over the line." He hisses in low tones.

"And I was _glad_ to do it."

Next thing he feels is Altaïr's mouth upon him and he counters with matching aggression, bites hard into where his scar rests and feels Altaïr’s lips stretch into a smirk beneath his teeth.

"Let’s not get violent again." Altaïr taunts after Malik leaves him bloody. He flicks his tongue in his customary way across the bloody trickle on his scar.

Malik fists his hands in Altaïr’s white shirt, but releases the hold soon thereafter.

He falls back a distance.

Altaïr doesn’t follow but looks as if something he had wanted desperately has just been yanked from his grasp.

"Go away." Malik asks.

"No."

"Just. _Go_." Malik pleads.

Everything that has permeated their encounters so far drops and Altaïr stands there nothing like the brute he used to be, but a beast turned into a fledgling. The layer of danger sheds from him like a snake’s skin and he is open before him like any earthly man with hope in eyes.

"I’ll go. But I’ll return."

Malik will lie because he will say what Altaïr already expects, not what his confused self wants to say.

"Don’t." He orders even when his stomach clenches at the thought.

There is no guarantee that Altaïr and he would last.

It’s no different than putting his hand in fire and hoping it won’t hurt.

 

* * *

 

 

Malik feels that these apologies for trysts are starting to take a different turn.

The night is creeping up the sky when Malik finally leaves for home. He had grabbed a quick snack from a vending machine before leaving the office, but his appetite is only whetted and his stomach roars for further nourishment.

Exhaustion is making him drowsy by the time he catches sight of Altaïr on his usual spot. The streetlight across the road sheds a halo around Altaïr’s head, but eclipses his face in shadows.

Malik is tired. While he walks he’s scowling at no one in particular and his gaze doesn’t linger long enough to see Altaïr’s reaction as he walks up to his car and leans against the backseat window in utter silence. They recline on the same side of the car, a distance between them which is not extensive enough for Malik's liking. The two of them share a silence on the darkened parking lot. Altaïr is patient (for once) and waits for Malik’s words. Truly a difference from the time at the villa.

Malik aims a look to the right and studies him for a long moment. The quiet makes Altaïr uncomfortable, he quickly notes. From this angle he doesn’t seem as miserable as the other day, but quite like a forlorn beast braced for the inevitable impact of a leash.

Slipping a blank mask on, Malik feels better prepared to face him.

"Why do you trouble me today?"

Altaïr fidgets with his answer.

"You must be starving. There’s a restaurant nearby. Dinner’s on me." His voice is low and hopeful towards the end.

A man who wouldn’t scruple to kill and take a life now hesitates beside him. It’s a strange thing to observe and Malik decides not to linger on it.

His eyes unknowingly drop down to where his fingers are shredding the supplementary white napkin of the bland toast-sandwich he wolfed. Some scraps escape, but most remain in the loose hold of his fist.

When Malik’s response to his offer presents itself in the form of silence, Altaïr sighs.

"Malik, you must listen to me." He asks in a smoother voice, but is still coiled with reluctance and hopeful of the answer.

"I’m listening." Malik assures in a weary voice.

"You may think yourself indifferent or resentful, or both, but the way you react and respond to me suggests otherwise."

A half-hearted quirk of lips is the most enthusiastic reaction Malik can offer in terms of bodily response.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever makes you sleep at night."

"If you truly were disinterested, you’d have ignored me entirely."

"I _did_ ignore you." Malik maintains with a spark of objection, but doesn’t lift his gaze.

"A couple of times out of a dozen," Malik counts two breaths before Altaïr continues, "either something is preventing you or you’re preventing yourself from accepting your wishes."

Malik deflates only slightly.

"How long have you rehearsed that speech?" He butts in when Altaïr opens his mouth to speak again.

"Leonardo told me." He admits.

Malik falls quiet.

He doesn’t seek words for a long time, but he lets the silence stretch on because it’s a peaceful one for him and heavy with anticipation for Altaïr.

Malik now feels comfortable confessing to himself that he enjoys seeing him squirm. In all kinds of ways. But he curses himself for ever insisting to come with Kadar. He curses ever having met this damned man. He would have lived without worries in blissful ignorance, but all that is wishful thinking now. Now that he knows what he’s missing out on.

Malik is slowly coming to the uncomfortable realization that he is interested in this man in ways that go beyond sex.

A mystery pains him which makes no sense.

There’s no sense that he should deny himself Altaïr when he does desire him. When he can have him. There’s no sense that what he desires is in a faraway world he doesn’t want to cross. There’s no sense that he had allowed Altaïr to leave such an impact on him and wreak more havoc on his body and mind in so short a time than anyone before. There’s no sense that he used to love and care for other people, but none have ignited his very being or clouded his judgement like this man.

There _is_ sense, because love doesn’t make any.

And it’s been so damn long since he’s had someone to love beside friends and Kadar.

But he knows what he gains and what he loses with Altaïr, and it’s not pretty.

Beside him, Altaïr is quiet and uncomfortable. He knows Malik understands more than he lets on but Malik doesn’t speak and this tells him a lot.

Malik finally lifts his gaze from the massacre he’s made in his hands and gives Altaïr a side-glance. His head is lowered and ambers have taken cover behind a heavy droop of thick lashes. In his lair, Altaïr is on his territory, shielded by his pack. Here, before Malik, Altaïr isn’t protected by anything.

Malik is gleefully aware of his advantage. The power he has over Altaïr he had wielded freely and on whims that were subject to his fickle temper.

Perhaps he had hoped that it’s his temper that would chase Altaïr away, but the man seems drawn by something else he deems valuable in Malik and vaults over his temper easily enough.

It can’t just be physical attraction, of that Malik is fairly sure. Altaïr’s reasons may be strange, but they’re not as petty as that.

Despite having initiated this conversation, Malik stalls a trifle awkwardly, wondering if he should broach a potentially tricky subject.

Altaïr liked him then and likes him now.

"Why, Altaïr?"

"You wouldn’t understand."

"Try me."

Altaïr heaves a sigh and expects his own failure right from the outset.

"You’re clean in a way I can never be. You glow with defiance, but you’re the sort of fire that scorches in daylight and smolders down to warm embers at night—"

Malik gives a laugh because it’s absurd how well the imagery describes him in ways Altaïr isn’t even aware of.

"—you know secrets I haven’t yet voiced, secrets I’ve kept from my own self."

"You give me too much credit. I don’t know you that good." Malik quips in.

"But you speak like you do."

Between the two of them, it’s Malik who turns reluctant now. Altaïr is the one who acts cautious, but it’s Malik who feels cautious. He had a hesitant start and has a hesitant continuation.

The new stretch of silence is of different kind that Altaïr intuitively knows heralds something bad.

"I won’t settle for _you_." Malik whispers after rising to steady feet.

"If it’s perfection you seek, you won’t find it anywhere."

Malik shows torn bits of paper into his pocket and firmly shakes his head.

"There’s no chance for us, no chance to bridge the gaps. Our love would be an abomination."

Behind him, Altaïr sighs at the unconvinced tone of Malik’s voice.

"Perhaps. But walking away now would be worse than love."

 

* * *

 

The weekend that separates them gives Malik time to think but does little to clear his head.

On Monday evening, when only a handful colleagues remain in the building, Malik delays leaving the office for a number of reasons. First, there is the matter of Altaïr and their unfinished conversation. The knowledge that he owes the man an answer leaves him numb with an underlying anxiety, leaves him curious, nervous, and then suddenly afraid. Then, there is the matter of rainfall.

Each time he glances through the window of the neighboring office, he sees Altaïr standing down below. The sky opens up further and showers rain over them, and each time Malik hopes Altaïr has left.

The last time he looks through the glass he sees Altaïr still standing in the rain, soaked like a lost pup.

He calls it a day and packs up under the cover of preventing Altaïr from catching pneumonia, but there is an excited churning in his gut, an anxiousness that spreads in a slow crawl while he walks over to him equally bareheaded.

They stand in poor light, but Malik welcomes the veil of dark. The drizzle had lasted long enough that there isn't anyone around to avoid, but it conceals them from curious gazes that still dare to wander.

"You said Leonardo believes either something's hindering me or I’m doing it myself. It’s actually a mix of both."

His voice is too loud to his own ears.

"I can’t forgive you for the peace and safety you’ve robbed me of… but," Altaïr’s eyes dart up and expect mercy, "I can give you a chance to rectify your past mistakes." Malik finishes and hopes he doesn’t sound too haughty since that was not his aim.

Something in Altaïr’s expression is fighting for outbreak through the wall of his mask, but once his joy makes itself known, Altaïr can’t hide it anymore. The emotion that seeps through in the form of a smile is a mixture of relief and glee, and a release of stress and anxiety.

Malik can’t part his eyes from it because it’s ephemeral and might soon fade and he wants to watch each slant of it before it withers into a straight line.

"Forgive me," says Altaïr, "A wave of happiness amidst an ocean of bitterness is a rare thing I’m unused to."

When Malik leans forward, Altaïr’s full lips are wet and supple against his own and rain never felt this good.

The kiss is languid and lingers, tastes of rain and unspoken words.

They are swathed in night’s dark clothes and soaked to bone. Altaïr’s shirt is dripping but he feels hot to the touch. His musky, spicy scent mixes with rain and makes Malik high on Altaïr tonight.

The kiss remains slow, generates a lust that courses his body in gentle waves and burns in a lazy manner. He feels Altaïr’s flexing grip against the muscles in his back go slack short before his hands make a detour down to the small of his back, pulling Malik in and into him until he is intensely aware of the tight mesh of their bodies.

It feels good to be held like this.

What he would get with Altaïr seems a trifle beside the mountain of loss. Yet it isn’t.

He will want more of this. He will miss it.

It’s warm, then freezing, it’s rough and gentle, it’s all at once.

Altaïr’s hands wrap around him, cage him in and it gets strange, too. One minute he feels oddly sheltered, like a downy chick under the wing of an eagle, and another he feels like the eagle itself.

Malik pulls his open mouth away from Altaïr’s, lets his lips brush teasingly against scarred ones, and Altaïr’s kiss rests pleasantly on his tongue. Their breaths pant out heavily against each other, warm and moist and mixing between them in the drizzle that morphed into mist.

Malik swallows, tries to moderate his breath enough so that he can talk.

"Before you came I was satisfied with my lot in life…"

"It’s your fault." Altaïr accuses in a whisper, "and mine. Yours because you made yourself bait, and mine because I was tempted enough to bite. I’ve tried to ignore it, let it pass. I thought if I were to remove you from my sight, I would forget."

"Why didn’t it work?"

"Do sun or moon disappear when they set?"

Malik cradles Altaïr’s jaw and studies his face, watches all the nuances that he hadn’t been able to see back at the villa. His irises are as light as ever and stand out against dilated pupils.

"You’re awfully poetic for a murderer." Malik says and pets along the uplift of Altaïr’s lips.

"Leonardo’s bad influence, I’m afraid."

Altaïr leans forward to taste more, because he can’t sate his craving. His right skims over Malik’s side and his left hand passes over the inward curve of his spine and comes to rest at the small of his back again.

There's a moment of stillness, and then hot air washes across Malik’s neck, a warning, a prelude of what is to come before a warm mouth latches onto his skin.

A tingle skitters across his neck where Altaïr has touched, goosebumps rise across his skin he can’t blame on the evening chill. He shifts to refit their bodies, Altaïr opens up for the blend. He nips a nice spot below his ear and replaces it with a kiss that forces a rush of breath from Malik. He feels the vibration of Altaïr’s nasal chuckle against his shoulder. Altaïr’s mouth is ravenous on his neck and he feels feverish.

He's caught between pushing at his chest and baring his throat for further attention. He likes it, likes how Altaïr is taking his time to enjoy him. Malik's fingers stroke through the short length of Altaïr’s wet hair, rake against his scalp, dig into the fine hairs on his nape, pressing him lower into the hollow of his throat.

Altaïr slowly works his way up and Malik’s breath begins to hitch the longer he allows Altaïr to work his magic against the arc of his neck. He doesn’t bite anymore, but nuzzles and presses wet kisses where he has access to skin. Malik’s right hand is firmly set against Altaïr’s chest, in the valley between his pecs, not pushing, but ready for the right moment to push.

Altaïr parts from the deeply-pressed kiss he is administering to when the pressure of Malik's hand is hard enough. The lack of weight leaves Altaïr with disappointment he doesn’t voice, he pulls at the small of his back lest Malik tries to disentangle himself, but Malik doesn’t intend to.

"Have you ever thought about abandoning this kind of life?" He asks knowing he is wading into potentially painful territory.

"I was born into it. It’s the only life I’ve ever known. There’s this fascination with this kind of life I never understood because it was just my everyday life."

Now that Altaïr’s hands have stopped wandering, Malik feels a light shiver creep under his skin which is not surprising at all.

"But you must have thought of not participating in it, at least?"

"Of course," Altaïr whispers into his ear, "but I was left absent choice. This pressure is exerted in all sorts of ways, on all sorts of levels, but it's exerted most basically this way: those who refuse to take a place do not get fed."

Malik absorbs his words.

It had occurred to Malik that Altaïr’s initial way of approach had little to do with social awkwardness and ineptness, but when the real answer points itself out to him he feels a shock suffuse his mind and it hits him like a ton of bricks.

Altaïr had been trying to tell something in his own strange way. It’s easy enough imagining that the mafia doesn’t want people breaking into their world, but imagining someone trying to break out enough to converse with an outsider is difficult to grasp.

The longer Malik pauses to think, the clearer he sees that Altaïr is the captive of a system that more or less compels him into destroying the world in order to live. And Malik had inadvertently made him his own captive, too. Altaïr had been making an innocent and disorganized effort to escape from captivity but ultimately failed and landed in another, because Malik failed to see the bars of his cage.

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth and words won’t leave him.

He narrows his eyes into aching disbelief, mostly at his own slow uptake.

"You’re lonely..." Malik finally realizes in a whisper.

Something twists in him at the full force of Altaïr’s look and underlying emotions he doesn’t recognize.

"It’s the nature of our work. I wanted you to look at me without dragging you into it and it’s far from easy. I used to be tempted to announce it to people because how could they look at the world and not recognize it for what it is?"

Malik imagines that people would look oddly at him and wonder what the hell he's talking about. It alienates Altaïr from people around him, from anyone but _the_ _famiglia_.

"People say that I'm bitter and misanthropic, and protests of any kind always seemed like a waste of time..."

Malik likes to call himself perceptive, but he has never felt more blind. He listens to confessions and words twist inside him like sharpened knives of accusation.

"I’ve been prepared for everything in life except you... Some angry gods must have sent you to kill me before death—"

Malik can’t stand to listen anymore.

"If you were lonely you could have asked for companionship, not threatened to kill off my only kin."

It might have been the first and only instance Malik saw Altaïr laugh. It starts out as a slow rumble and slithers into a gentle shake of shoulders while he stifles his chuckles.

"An armed mafia boss of the wealthiest clan in the region holding hands with a newly-made outsider friend. Yes, very likely."

"This could have been done without my dick up your ass." Malik scowls.

"But it wouldn’t have been as fun." Altaïr's jests with voice colored in remnants of amusement.

His expression sobers up fast.

"I never apologized for what happened at the villa."

"Your apology is long overdue. But well-received."

The relief on Altaïr’s face hurts Malik in ways a fist never could.

"You must work on your eloquence. For all your other skills, you are a novice at communication."

"I admit I need a patient teacher." The mafioso smirks in healthy cheer.

Malik feels for Altaïr’s hands that rest on his hips, lets their joined hands fall between them and slips the tips of his fingers through Altaïr’s loose fists.

"You got yourself one. Now kiss me so I forget why I was angry with you."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so you never find out why Kadar borrowed money in the first place huehue
> 
> Folks, there’s this thing I accidentally scribbled up, a small sequel following this short story, but it’s just so embarrassing and /sappy/and I don't want to spoil what I have here, but... just... WAT DO?
> 
> To add or not to add, honest?


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